


Farewell (to you my friend)

by DoYouHearThePeopleDeduce



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoYouHearThePeopleDeduce/pseuds/DoYouHearThePeopleDeduce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Étienne Combeferre was an aspiring writer, who was a corrections officer on one of the most controversial, government supported facilities in the world.<br/>Death row.<br/>And these are the accounts of a few of the inmates that came his way. </p><p>||Green Mile-esque story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell (to you my friend)

Jean Prouvaire | Date recieved: 04/13/36 | Date of execution: 09/27/36 | Crime: 1st degree murder

 

It was early on an April morning when Jean Prouvaire became an inmate at Death Row. Combeferre remembers the day clearly. It was a rainy day.

 

The thing that struck Combeferre about this Prouvaire fellow was that he was awfully quiet. He never spoke unless spoken to, and even then it was in a curt manor. Not impolite, but not in a way which sparks a conversation. He was the first inmate that he'd seen to never protest against his sentence, to never try to convince him that he was innocent. Combeferre knew he should be thankful, but something about the boys quiet nature spooked him.

  
Whenever he would pass the cell occupied by the quiet one, he'd be met with the sight of a man barely through his teens, with a painful expression, steepled hands resting against his chin, silent prayers falling from his lips. He'd rock back against the wall, but not harsh enough to evoke a noise. It appeared to be Prouvaires last wish to disturb anyone around him. It confused Combeferre deeply. He'd worked at the Row for over 5 years now and he'd never quite seen a boy like Jean. It took him two months before he spoke up.

  
"I did it" He choked.

* * *

  
_Jehan Prouvaire came from a wealthy family of suburban America. He'd had the childhood that any kid would wish for._

_White picket fence family, caring parents, all the toys which he desired, and an elder brother who adored him. From birth he'd been quite in nature, always passed as a sensitive soul. He'd carried his innocence through life, becoming infatuated by love from an early age. Never had he fell in love, except for with the aspect of love. He loved love. It sang through his poetry, sweet sonnets which danced through your mind like a ballerina. Careful, precise, yet beautiful and elegant._

_Once the war came, and his father left to fight , his genre shifted. From how it once sung softly of love, it now longed for peace. A collage of hopeful messages for a brightful tomorrow, for the return of the men, for the safety of his country. He prayed before he slept, and he prayed when he woke._

  
_A year later the Prouvaire family received a letter. His father had been shot, and was now gone. The prayers stopped and once again the genre changed. Instead of hope, he wrote of grief- his words a cry for comfort, a cry for his father. By now, his brother was gone- taken to a far away country by the war. Jean Prouvaire grew up that day._

  
_3 months later, his mother killed herself. Perhaps the saddest part of it all, was the pang of jealousy that Jean felt on her funeral day. 'It wasn't natural' He reminded himself as they lowered her body underground. And now he was alone in the world, at 18 years old._

  
_He'd survived until the end of the war, staying with an Aunt in a nearby state. It was safe and he was comfortable. But once the war was over, he was asked to leave. In all honesty, it was expected. The poor women had children of her own and now that Jehan was an adult himself- he's have to make do. His brother never came home. The poetry stopped._

  
_It was a Friday night when he pressed the cool blade of a knife against another mans neck, watching nonchalantly as the blood puddled around him. He'd learnt to carry a knife with him at all times, he'd learnt to trust no one. Loneliness protected him. As he walked between the streets of mid-oppression New York, It was an immediate reaction to stab the man when he felt his body forced against the wall- Icy hands going lower and lower down the poets lean body- before it went limp altogether and dropped to the floor. Not the slightest emotion dusted on the jaded ones face._

  
_He handed himself in._

* * *

 

It was a Wednesday when Jehan was taken to the chair. Combeferre felt disgust. In his eyes, the boy was innocent. His actions were out of defense. Combeferre didn't sleep for three days once he'd pulled the lever.

  
Afterwards, it was as if he'd never walked through on that rainy April morning. Perhaps the most peculiar thing is how Jehans presence was was unnoticeable, but his absence was grief-striking.

 

 


End file.
